If sweetness could kill

January 17, 2009

On snowy winter mornings, I open the blinds so my two-year-old can watch me shovel the walk.  Usually, he runs from window to window, waving every time I turn to check on him.  But this morning when I looked up, he wasn’t there.

I went to the window and peered inside.  I could see him heading for the back door, still in his pajamas, his stocking cap on his head.  I raced around to the back and found him struggling with the storm door. 

As I opened it, he said very seriously, “Me helpin’ shovel, Mama.”  He had his shoes on the wrong feet, the toes pointing out uncomfortably.  If sweetness could kill, I’d be a goner. 

Anyone who has prepared a two-year-old to play in the snow knows that it is at least a 20-minute ordeal.  Just getting a pair of mittens on a toddler takes five minutes per hand.  I don’t have time on weekday mornings to bundle my son up so he can help me shovel.  But how could I resist? 

I laughed and told him he’d need a coat if he was going to help me shovel.  He followed me back into the house. I found his stepstool in the open door to the coat closet, his coat stuck on the hanger. 

He said, “Me tried to get my coat, Mama.” 

Back outside, he needed his shovel, which required me to trek through a two-foot snowdrift to the garage.  He waited patiently by the back door. 

When I returned, he took the shovel dutifully and began digging in the snow piled next to the sidewalk I’d just cleared.  It wasn’t long before he’d returned much of the snow to its original location.  He straightened proudly. 

“Me helpin’, Mama!”

I thanked him and resumed shoveling the driveway.  I was in a hurry to finish, and he mimicked my pace, throwing snow in every direction as he a dug a path through the grass.  Every once in a while our eyes would meet.  He’d smile and wave his green plastic shovel.  “We worker guys, Mama!” 

Go team!

I finished the driveway and returned my shovel to its place beside the back door.  My son’s face fell.  “There’s more snow, Mama!” 

He pointed into the yard, the neighbor’s yard, the whole town.  I told him that sadly we didn’t have time to shovel all the snow in the world before it was time for me to go to work.  He sighed heavily.  He was just getting warmed up. 

He resorted to his if-I-pretend-I-didn’t-hear-her-she’ll-just-keep-playing-with-me tactic and continued piling snow back onto the sidewalk.

I snuck inside for my camera.  Fourteen years from now, when I’m asking him for the third time to go out and shovel the driveway, and he’s resorting to his if-I-pretend-I-didn’t-hear-her-she’ll-just-leave-me-alone tactic, I’m going to get those pictures out and remind him that once upon a time he was outside in his pajamas, shoes on the wrong feet, green plastic shovel in hand, ready to be a worker guy like Mama.  Once upon a time, my baby boy couldn’t wait to shovel snow. 

He’ll roll his eyes and say, “You’ve told me that story ten million times, Mom.” 

And I’ll reply, “If sweetness could kill, I’d be a goner.  Now get outside and get that walk cleared!”  

This article first appeared in the Lewistown News-Argus January 17, 2009.